The angry adrenaline leaves me as I deflate, running a hand through my hair and finding my bearings. I glance up at the pen sticking out of Samantha’s bun, finally knowing why it’s always in there. She’s been documenting our life’s moments—turning them into something tangible. Small ones, big ones, forgettable ones, devastating ones, cherished ones. Our entire lives are in these shoeboxes.
